Adieu, Adieu

It's amazing how much you can squeeze into three days in London. I've been to Harrods to buy some tea, English Breakfast No 14 Blend; to Portobello Road to visit the Hummingbird Bakery; to the National Gallery to see the Constables; to Carnaby Street because I was young in the '60s; to the Dickens House to honour a genius; to Mass at the extraordinary Westminster Cathedral; to Kensington Palace; Sloane Square; the Thames Embankment; Covent Garden Market and the Savoy Hotel.

Have I done it all? Sadly I've only just scratched the surface, but that's a great incentive to come back some day.

To complete the circle I, like Phileas Fogg, return to the Reform Club. It seems no time since first I gazed upon the discreet brass plate of 104 Pall Mall. Those eighty adventure filled days have come and gone.

As London rushes by, endlessly repeating the same journey, I am completing THE journey. I'm in love with this green and pleasant land but my time is up, so it's farewell my lovely, you have failed me not.

The Magical Mount

As our last chapter closed, I was cycling around Mount's Bay heading for St. Michael's Mount, a tiny fascinating island just a stone's throw out to sea from the village of Marazion about two miles from Penzance in Cornwall.

When the tide is low you can walk across the causeway to the island but the rising tide completely covers it making the island accessible only by boat.

The island is in the shape of a pointy topped hill and sitting on the top of the granite rock is the home of the St Aubyn family. Originally a monastery in the 11th century, then a fortress during the Civil War, the castle was eventually purchased in the mid 17th century by Colonel John St Aubyn.

The tide is well in when I arrive so it's into the boats which scurry back and forth taking visitors there and back for one pound fifty a trip. There are several different landing stages depending on the height of the tide, so you may not arrive back in the same place from which you started!

As you draw closer to the Mount it's easy to imagine you've got mixed up in an Enid Blyton adventure. This place must surely have inspired her 'Five Go To Smuggler's Top'. There is something wildly romantic about a castle perched on top of a tiny island. Who knows what secrets are hiding within these ancient walls.

The pathway up the mount to the castle is not for the faint-hearted. After a civilised stretch of cobblestone paving you arrive at the Pilgrim Steps, the ancient route consisting of wide, deep, steps of rock blocks, none too even after centuries of use. This is the route the Pilgrims took, after crossing the causeway at low tide, to the church at the top, inspired by four miracles which were reported here in 1262-63.

Having made it to the top of the steps, you pause for a breather at the Giant's Well where, according to legend, Cormoran was slain by Jack the Giant Killer. You then discover you have just completed the easy part of the ascent. Thereafter the path slopes ever upwards and is constructed from rounded stones, about the size of a duck egg, set in mortar, not the easiest surface to gain a good footing upon. Next comes the rough steps hewn from the rock on which the castle is built. I pass an old lady on a stick being helped and encouraged by her daughter, I assume. Somehow I feel she's left this visit a little late in life.

You have now arrived at two terraces bristling with cannons pointing out to sea. The guns in these batteries were used to repel the Parliamentarians during the Civil War. The Mount was one of the last castles to surrender to Cromwell's troops around 1647.

Entering the castle there is no hint left of men's foolish war games except in paintings, and a room, once part of the old monastery, given over to a display of weaponry.

Over the centuries it has been transformed into a comfortable home, parts of which are still used by the incumbent family on special occasions, like Christmas dinner in the old monks' refectory at the seventeenth century oak dining table. The family's private living quarters occupy five floors below the South Terrace, where they can hopefully get on with their lives in spite of the hundreds of visitors that troop up their hill each week.

Every window looks out to the surrounding sea confirming that this is indeed an island of the classic storybook variety. High up on the terraces leading to the church one can look down on the gardens that surround the castle. This corner of England is influenced by the Gulf Stream giving it a Mediterranean climate where plants, more reminiscent of our southern Australian gardens, thrive in the relatively mild conditions. Winter gales lash this tiny island but the gardens survive to bloom again the following spring.

The castle clusters around the old Priory Church dating from the fourteenth century. Services are still held here every Sunday during the warmer months and at Christmas and Easter. But all is not as pious and serene as it appears, the church holds a grisly secret.

Several hundred years ago the church was undergoing some alterations when a secret door was discovered. It lead to a flight of narrow stone steps, at the bottom of which is a small chamber. In this chamber was found the skeleton of a man measuring over seven feet tall. There was no clue to his identity and no knowing how long he had lain in this forgotten pit. His remains were buried on the island but no one knows where, consequently he can't be dug up for the purpose of carbon dating. One hopes the poor chap was dead when he was tossed down the stairs, but it's more likely that he died a miserable death of starvation.

The doorway is still able to be cleverly concealed behind the seats in the family pews. It stands open for visitors to see but can be closed over and you would never know it existed at all.

There are nine rooms in the castle that are open to the public, each one a treasure trove of paintings, books, china, silverware, furniture and furnishings, and clocks, one of which is a tidal clock, made around 1780, showing the movements of the tide in Mount's Bay.

The weather is closing in a little and it's time to head down the Pilgrim Steps to the small island harbour for the boat back to the mainland. The mounting waves toss us this way and that and I feel like the disciples might have felt on the sea of Galilee. But our skipper steers us safely between the rocks and the little harbour wall at Marazion, and we're thankfully on dry land again.

Time is up, just a few days in London then on the plane for the long journey back home. So where better to end this commentary of our eighty day adventure than gazing back at the magical island of St Michael's Mount.

Ahoy There Me Hearties!

The adventure is drawing to a close as the little Ford Fiesta beetles along the A394 into Cornwall, eventually coming to rest near the quay in Penzance where I'm on the lookout for pirates, but nary a one in sight.

I am comfortably ensconced for the week in an apartment opposite the quay and above the Boat Shed restaurant, owned and operated by the charmingly boyish Nigel who has converted his upstairs nightclub into snazzy holiday lets.

By some miracle I've found a spot to park the car when I arrive in town after driving on and off all day. I ask everyone in sight if this is Dock Lane and where is the Boat Shed restaurant? A staff member at The Dolphin, an historic inn which is said to be haunted by the ghost of an old sea captain, directs me to the Boat Shed. No Nigel in sight and restaurant shut until dinnertime. Try his phone, no luck. Into the gift shop opposite and ask the lady if she knows where I might find Nigel.

She's a very nice lady with a wonderful Cornish accent and yes, no problem she will ring Nigel and get him to come and fetch me, which she does. She's used to this, she gets a lot of his tenants popping in here looking for him. When he arrives, in two ups, I can see why she is more than happy to provide this service. She is obviously madly in love with Nigel, as I suspect are most of the female population of Penzance!

She delays him as long as possible chatting about a thumping great boat which is blocking everyone's view of the water. Rumour has it that it's setting sail later in the week. Nigel's very pleased about that because the customers in his restaurant would sooner look at some sparkling water than a grey metal hulk.

So at last, with profuse apologies, I am shown to 'Sunny Corner' above the Boat Shed. The access to this ancient quayside building is via a flight of sixteen narrow stone steps between it and the Customs House, or, at the top of the hill, from a similarly narrow U shaped lane lined with parked cars.

Nigel says my car will be fine in the lane until early on Monday after which time it's likely to be clamped! I decide to play it safe and park down on the busy quayside road in an elongated wedge between the footpath and the front wall of the next building along from the Customs House. To get your car into this spot requires mounting the footpath when, hopefully, there is no one walking on it.

New chums need be wary because there are four flagpoles right here, and you can easily be sandwiched between cars with a pole at your side. I cunningly foresee this possibility and park where there is an open getaway.

What I haven't factored in is the enormous trucks that line up along the roadway right here in the early morning, waiting their turn to unload cargo onto the ships in the quay opposite. But I'm in luck this morning because my destination is but two miles along the coastal path following the arc of Mount's Bay, the in-coming tide sending spray up over the sea wall as I cycle to the magical island of St. Michael's Mount, which you shall hear all about in the next episode.

A Day To Remember

I guess I could have gone on another day, if only I'd known. But as it turned out I went to Stonehenge on the worst day possible. Well maybe not quite the worst, there was no fork lightning.

I set off nice and early, bad idea because everyone is heading for work or school, it's raining and visibility is poor. The traffic in the UK is unrelenting, and at this hour of the morning it's unadulterated mayhem. It takes me 25 minutes to get from one side of Salisbury to the other.

I arrive at Stonehenge car park and find there are other intrepid adventurers out on this dreadful morning, hauling on waterproof jackets and optimistically erecting umbrellas.

We are on Salisbury Plain here, where the wind is ripping in from the south-east with nothing to stand in its way. An umbrella is a useless weapon against such elements.

I decide a cup of coffee in the car might be a good idea, and perhaps the weather will clear a little. It gets worse.

Nothing for it but to pull on the jacket and erect my new National Trust umbrella (purchased two days ago in the rain at Mottisfont Abbey) in spite of knowing the pointlessness of the exercise.

I hasten up to the ticket booth to flash my National Trust Australia card only to find that because this site is co-managed by the Trust and English Heritage, Aussie card holders are persona non grata. I pay up and collect my audio guide then head out to the stones.

Just as I am setting off, a bus load of older American tourists are doing likewise. We emerge from the relative shelter of the car park and walkway, into the driving rain. I back myself into the wind and rain with the umbrella behind me to listen to the first part of the audio. An American gentleman near by says to his wife, 'If I ever have an idea like this again hit me over the head will you'.

My jeans are getting wetter by the minute but when I turn to look at the stones I am awe-struck. Even in these abominable conditions the stones are breathtaking. They are massive and seem to have a sort of luminous glow. Every angle is different as you move around the circle. Only visitors on guided sunrise and sunset tours are allowed to walk amongst the stones these days, the rest of us stay behind the ropes.

Even so there is a spot where you are very close to them which was where I turned into the wind to catch my first glimpse. They are in fact not far from the A344 which leads to the car park but driving past them is nothing like standing near them. The wind is so fierce I can hardly hold the camera still to take some photos.

I abandon the umbrella and the audio guide, I'll have to settle for a circumnavigation and shall read up on the details later.

To be here for the summer solstice and see the sun rise between these prehistoric giants, would be the moment of a lifetime.

By the time I reach the Heel Stone, not part of the circle but one of two that marked the entrance to the circle from what was once the ceremonial avenue, the path is disappearing under water, and my jeans are completely saturated as are my two pairs of socks.

I hasten back to the car where I find a plastic bag to sit on, in a not very successful, as it turned out, effort to keep the upholstery dry. My plan to seek out a couple of the White Horses that are dotted about these chalk hills is now out of the question. I must drive the 40 minutes home to get dry, and in these appalling driving conditions, that's where I'll stay.

I wonder as I drive away what the bus load of drenched Americans will do to dry off. At least they'll always remember the day they visited Stonehenge.

There'll Be Bluebirds Over... (Gulls Actually)

Well, so much for my resolve to select one special day in Kent to tell you about, for I simply must tell you of my day at the White Cliffs of Dover.

The two miles of coastline to the east of Dover, known as the Langdon Cliffs, is managed by the National Trust, as is the South Foreland Lighthouse at the far extremity.

In Dover itself, I cycle along the landscaped waterfront area, the waist high retaining walls of which are cleverly designed to represent the White Cliffs. The beach is one of those extraordinary English pebble beaches, which I have to stop and crunch along just for the heck of it. No messy sand in the boot of the car after a day at the beach here.

I rejoin the hectic morning traffic and head out of town following the National Trust signs saying White Cliffs, and am delivered to the car park (free to we Trust members).

I collect my leaflet detailing the coastal paths leading to the lighthouse which, as it turns out, is not open today, so the reputedly spectacular view from the top will be denied me. Never mind, the view from the Visitor Centre is spectacular enough where you look down on Dover Port with huge ferries coming and going from France, like taxis at a station.

The day is overcast and a mist hangs over the Channel adding to the wild mysterious grandeur of this wonderful place.

Setting off along the path, the first sight of the cliff face is breathtaking. It's just as you know it is from photographs and film footage but the real thing, up here in the wind with that misty backdrop, is magical.

The path takes you quite near the edge where you can see the face of the cliffs ahead, then a little further inland and finally back nearer the edge as you approach the lighthouse. There are a couple of killer flights of steps along the way, fine going down, pulse elevating coming up. But you can always stop half way up and marvel at the view out to sea.

Gulls suddenly appear on an up-draught from the cliffs and swoop and dive overhead like kites in the wind, their haunting cry always the song of the sea. A tractor is ploughing a field beyond the cliffs area and the gulls settle on the newly ploughed earth for some tasty pickings.

As the lighthouse is closed, and the trek back another two miles, I decide to rest for a bit on a large square of concrete on the very edge of the cliff where you can look along the cliff face back towards Dover. A skin of soil, no more than a foot deep, sits directly on the chalk cliffs and the green grass grows on the soil right to the edge, which gives the look of a layer cake with green icing. Strangely there is no wind just here.

I am about to pour a cup of coffee when I have the bright idea to take a photo of my Thermos etc. with the cliffs as a backdrop. To get the right angle for this shot I have to lie on the concrete slab. It crosses my mind that any onlooker may think me totally deranged.

But I don't really care what anyone thinks because I'm sitting on the edge of the White Cliffs of Dover sipping coffee and looking out across the English Channel.

The Garden of England

And now it's off to Little Chart in Kent before I'm tempted to tell you about my Stratford-Upon-Avon day or the day the steam train didn't go to Cheltenham because of a landslide. Then there was the beautiful Hidcote Garden; Blenheim Palace; Winston Churchill's beloved Chartwell. Oh I could go on and on! But no, the Kentish Wealds are calling and where better to experience the Garden of England, as Kent is so engagingly named, than with a visit to the romantic and beautiful garden at Sissinghurst Castle.

A man's home is his castle according to common wisdom and this is indeed literally true for some unfortunate souls lumbered with the ancestral pile.

What do you do if you inherit a property like Sissinghurst for instance, without a vast fortune to support its upkeep?

Enter the National Trust, rescuer of Lords and Ladies in distress who are reluctant to sell off the family seat to some Johnny-come-lately from the music industry. The idea is that you hand over the property to the National Trust along with whatever cash you can scrape together, and you, depending on the deal you cut, get to live there for free as do your heirs in perpetuity.

Sounds good? Well, yes it is really, as long as you're not fussed about 150,000 people turning up at your place on an annual basis. And of course you don't get to live in the best rooms any more, but then neither do you have to clean them.

The National Trust are a bossy lot and won't tolerate your kids leaving their bikes on the lawn, or trying out their pea-shooters on the visitors. But in the long run, handing over the mansion to the NT forms yet another firm bond between the cash strapped upper classes. I'm sure they derive endless hours of entertainment discussing the latest outrageous demands and restrictions imposed on them by the all powerful Trust.

We visitors to the land of the Stately Mansion are the real winners in this arrangement, enjoying, as we do, visiting some of the country's finest real estate. Some properties even accept paying guests.

All UK bound Aussies must surely know by now that if you join the National Trust of Australia before you depart you can visit NT properties in the UK for nix. This reciprocal arrangement has the potential to save the history buff and garden lover a very tidy sum.

And so it is with my NT card in hand that I head for the most famous garden in the world, Sissinghurst Castle Garden.

For those of you who have been living on some other planet for the last 40 odd years, Sissinghurst was the creation of the fascinating Vita Sackville-West, and her equally intriguing husband, Harold Nicholson.

The story of their unusual relationship makes riveting reading in itself, and heaven knows their son Nigel milked that little cash cow dry in the 1980s or there-abouts.

It is the garden we have come to see today, but also to peek into the romantic Elizabethan Tower where Vita wrote her poetry and her gardening articles, in a room overlooking the wonderful garden she created from a derelict ruin.

Harold can take credit for the layout of the garden which employs the concept of the 'garden room', where each area is visually separated from the next by, now mature, Yew hedges or old brick walls, so a surprise awaits at every turn.

Vita planted the garden in a romantic blowsy style with flower colours echoing the colours of the mellow old walls, and designed beds or, in the case of the White Garden, a whole garden, on a particular colour theme.

The White Garden is revered and copied the world over, sometimes as an exact replica.

Roses were the flowers that Vita loved and used extensively in all the gardens, so the spring and early summer provide the very best viewing. But a visit in the autumn does not go unrewarded as the autumn perennials are at their peak in every garden. I'll resist the temptation to bore you with botanical lists.

My particular favourite is the Cottage Garden which was Harold's domain. He planted it in all the warm colours of red, yellow and orange. Adding immensely to this garden's charm is South Cottage with its diamond paned windows and mellow brick walls covered with climbing roses, giving the feel that it is just a picturesque house in a flowery garden rather than part of a much larger whole.

Having wandered at length in the garden I stroll past the moat and on towards the lakes some distance from the garden proper. As I am returning from a circumnavigation of the two peaceful lakes I spy coming towards me, with two dogs at heel, Adam Nicholson, the grandson of the famous Vita, who, with his family, is the current incumbent.

I have seen him this very year at the Adelaide Writer's Week, where he was promoting his book about his past and present involvement with Sissinghurst. I bought a copy at the time and the reading of it gave me much enjoyment.

Concious that the poor fellow is probably constantly accosted by old birds like me who have been at one of his lectures, I none-the-less am bold enough to say, 'Now didn't I see you in Adelaide this year?'

When I mention Adelaide the lights go on! He has had a wonderful time on that trip, and we are instantly the best of friends. He had not previously been to Australia and was much taken with the whole experience. He went to Kangaroo Island, which he loved, and hopes he will return to see more of the country one day.

He asks my opinion on the garden, and I say I'm impressed with the standard of maintenance and we discuss whether it is overly trim. I don't think so, he's not so sure. I know his grandmother liked the yew hedges to be a little 'fluffy', but I personally like a tight hedge, and am more than happy when I spot the gardeners using a spirit level as they clip the tall Yews. A section of the hedge has died in recent years as a result of wet feet, and he tells me the details of the restoration programme.

We eventually bid each other farewell and he continues on his walk, and I return for one last look at the Cottage Garden, marvelling at the fact that I've just been chatting with the grandson of its creator.

The Romantic Road

And so for a week in the romantic Cotswolds, home of the 'Chocolate Box' village and the gentle rolling countryside in viridus extremis (which might be Latin for very green).

Doing the Cotswolds is a torturous days work in anyone's language, but with an air of joie de vivre, I set off to do the 'Romantic Road' motoring tour, as you might call it if you were driving a Morgan with the top down.

First stop Moreton-in-Marsh (the names alone have a sugary caramel centre), where there's no shortage of attractive buildings, but the traffic thundering through the main street spoils the quaint village atmosphere we tourists crave. I take to the bike and cycle off down a country lane for a mile or so and back past a duck pond which has a little house in the middle with ramps for the ducks to walk up.

Next stop is Stow-on-the-Wold. Rather hilly here which allows a glimpse of some lovely countryside as you look down the street. These little villages usually have a good bakery, and S-on-the-W is no exception. I buy a pastry (have I told you I'm a pastry addict since arriving in this pastry-centric country?) and cycle around for a bit.

Back in the car and off to the Slaughters, first Upper then Lower. Now this is more like it. Here we have the dreamy little village with the stream running by and the only commercial venture is a grand hotel in the traditional style called the Lord of the Manor.

An American couple have arrived at the same time as me and are looking around for the shops, while I'm pouring tea from the Thermos and enjoying my pastry. They ask at the hotel and find there are no shops. They tell me the hotel is mighty fine and I should have a look, which I do.

It has a large and beautiful cottage garden at the back and sweeping lawns in front which culminate at the stream where a double cascade waterfall is visible for the enjoyment of the G&T sipping guests on the terrace.

I have a peep inside at the elegant entrance hall, sitting room, and bar which have a 1930s sort of atmosphere. Oh for a week here playing ladies!

Lower Slaughter is as charmingly devoid of shops as Upper Slaughter, although there is an art exhibition for the tourists who want something more to do than take in the scenery. The houses are beautiful and a little stream flows gently through the village.

Two young American girls ask if I will take their photo. One is from Virginia and is here to start university in St Andrews, Scotland, next week. Her friend from Washington DC, has come with her for a couple of weeks holiday and to see her on her way.

My head is starting to spin a little, I'm not sure I'm cut out for the motoring tour. You know what it's like selecting perfume, after sniffing three of them they all start to smell the same. I'm feeling rather like that with the villages and have to make sure to write notes after each one.

The next is Bourton-on-the-Water which does have shops. It also has a most intriguing model village. It was created during the 1930s by the publican of the Old New Inn (only in England!), and local craftsmen, in the back garden of the pub.

Not only is it a model village, but a model of this village, in 1/9 scale. Every house, shop and church is here. Even the River Windrush running through, complete with the lovely stone footbridges that can also be crossed in the real village. Well most days the river is running but not this one, some problem with the pump.

As you walk past the Church of St Lawrence you can hear the choir singing a hymn, and the clock in the church tower is the correct time! The gardens have bonsaied trees and shrubs, and ground-covers with miniature flowers, and neat green lawns. It really is wonderful.

After cycling around the real village I hit the road again, but it's getting late in the afternoon by now, so no time to stop in Burford if I want to see the 15th century stained glass at St Mary's in Fairford.

Beautiful. The lady watching over proceedings tells me it has recently be refurbished, glass cleaned and lead repaired. It had to go to York for this work to be done by the experts. I can't begin to imagine what that would cost.

Heading home at last via Bibury. The houses in this little village are so beautiful that I must stop for just a few more photos.

I'm totally knackered after the Romantic Road Motoring Tour and pour myself a goodly draught of red and sit down to ponder the natural and the man-made beauty this country has on offer.